


The Keeping Of Secrets

by goodmorning



Series: Of Cups and Kitchens [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Everyone Finds Out, Other, Secret Relationship, Sorry Not Sorry, or "Secret" Relationship, still just fluff, yes I did tag the entire ensemble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorning/pseuds/goodmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if…” says Jack suddenly, and stops. “Hypothetically speaking, what if we might… That is, what if we were dating someone offensive?”</p><p>“Hey!” protests a voice George really hopes she doesn’t recognize, and Jack makes a noise like he’s been poked hard in the ribs.</p><p>There’s a very long pause during which she formulates and discards about ten different answers before settling on, “Are you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. George

**Author's Note:**

> I've made my terrible title bed and now I have to lie in it. Terrible titles for the whole series!
> 
> This is 100% as trope-y as it looks.

Two days after the Cup win, George calls Jack to update him on the status of the boyfriend revelation.

“Mornin’, Miss George,” says the person who answers, and she’s slightly embarrassed but mostly entertained by the fact that Bitty’s comfortable answering Jack’s phone.

“You’re on speaker,” says Jack, slightly too late in her opinion, and there’s a snort from the other end of the line so she’s obviously not the only one who thinks so. “What’s up?”

“You picked a very good time to come out, Jack,” she says. “Leading the team in postseason goals and points, winning the Art Ross and the Richard and the Conn Smythe, virtually a lock for the Hart, winning the Stanley Cup? The usual trolls can’t dismiss you as terrible when you’re seeing successes like Gretzky and Lemieux did. Oh, and speaking of that success, your agent called, said he couldn’t get a hold of you? He asked me to tell you that You Can Play have called him ‘oh, about sixteen hundred times’ to see if you’ll be a spokesman.”

“I thought I already made a video for them?”

“That was before you kissed a charming young man on national television, Jack. And speaking of Bitty, that’s the other thing. You picked a very good boyfriend to come out with, too. Big social media presence, polite and inoffensive. The press can’t get any mileage out of you two. The internet loves you-”

“Good Lord, I’ve got almost as many followers as Beyonce!”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“What if…” says Jack suddenly, and stops. “Hypothetically speaking, what if we might… That is, what if we _were_ dating someone offensive?”

“Hey!” protests a voice George really hopes she doesn’t recognize, and Jack makes a noise like he’s been poked hard in the ribs.

There’s a very long pause during which she formulates and discards about ten different answers before settling on, “Are you?”

“Um,” says Jack. “Yes?”

“Good morning, Ms. Martin,” someone says, and she definitely does recognize his voice, knows who he is even before Jack hisses, “Kenny!”

“Good morning, Kent,” she replies. There are a lot of things she could say about this, about how much harder it’ll be, about the little Jack’s told her of last time, about Bitty - but she knows that’s probably not what Jack needs from her right now, so she just asks, “how long?”

“About 36 hours,” Jack says, and of course he’d be so precise.

“Then I’ll let PR know so you don’t have to, and tell your agent you’re not dead as well. Kent, Bitty, is there anyone you’d like me to call for you?”

“No, thanks,” says Kent, and she knows exactly what face he’s making - the one he uses in interviews just before he says something he probably shouldn’t, “I like to keep the Aces’ PR on their toes.”

“Bitty?” she asks, after he doesn’t respond.

“He’s Twittering,” says Jack, and she hears Kent muttering something about old men and newfangled technology.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you three to your celebrations. Congratulations and good luck!” George says, and for all she wants it to be sunshine and rainbows for them it doesn’t feel like it’s quite enough. 

“Just be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -George and the Falcs PR team were prepared to threaten any paper that published something nasty.  
> -Beyonce has a little over 14 million Twitter followers. There aren't any sports figures with that many as far as I know, but Bitty is adorable so it's not the least plausible thing ever, especially given that this is a universe in which slightly more people are hockey fans.  
> -Jack wins 6 trophies that year. The Art Ross and the Richard are for the highest regular-season scorer of points and goals, respectively. The Hart, the Conn Smythe, and the Lindsay are awarded to the MVP for his team, for his team in the postseason, and for the league, respectively. The Lady Byng goes to a big talent with good sportsmanship.  
> -The previous season, Jack picked up a few of those, plus the Masterton and the Calder. The Masterton goes to a player who shows "perseverance, sportmanship, and dedication to ice hockey." The Calder is awarded to the best rookie of the year, as long as he's less than 26 years old at the start of said rookie season. Jack was 25.


	2. The Bittles

Coach is up late watching SportsCenter, picking up the preseason football news, occasionally disagreeing with the sportscasters in an only slightly elevated voice. Suzanne has just come in to remind him that it’s getting late and he needs to actually sleep because he’s not twenty anymore, dear when the football news ends and they switch to hockey and there’s that Canadian boy who was down for the Fourth two summers ago, with a real big trophy and his teammates and his parents, and then kissing another boy and is that-?

Suzanne goes for the remote, but he’s there first, hitting the pause button and taking a long look at the screen, and yes, that’s Dicky. He turns to her. She looks - frightened?

“Did you know?” he asks.

“No, but I…”

“You suspected,” he finishes, putting his face in his hands with a sigh.

She says, “Richard Bittle, don’t you dare be ashamed of our son! He’s-”

“I’m not,” he says, quiet, and he’d be hurt she could think that about him but he probably deserves it. All the times he looked the other way, all the bullying he ignored, all the shit he left for Dicky to put up with alone… he deserves worse than that. “I’m ashamed of myself,” he says, and he tells her all of it, every single time he’s let Dicky down.

“Oh, honey,” Suzanne says, and they fall asleep during Bitty’s 5th birthday party, cuddling on the couch. When they wake up, their bodies ache. She can’t turn her head right, and he can’t raise his left arm past the shoulder, but they both feel better than they’ve felt in a long time.

Suzanne calls Dicky, reminds him he promised to come home for the Fourth, tells him to bring a friend. “Yes, mama,” he says, and proceeds to extol the virtues of maple sugar for an hour.

Dicky and his friend pull up in a Ferrari, and she thinks, _well, that boy’s changed_ , until she notices that the hair under the backwards cap is blond.

“Mama, this is Kent Parson,” Dicky says when they reach the doorstep. “Kent, this is my mama.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bittle,” says Kent Parson, taking off his hat.

She wonders if Dicky told him to do that.

“Please, call me Suzanne,” she says. After they come in and she’s given Kent directions to the bathroom, she turns, asks, “Dicky, I thought you were bringing Jack?”

“He got held up, but he’ll be here soon. Mama, I hope you don’t mind that I brought Kent?”

“Of course not, Dicky! Now, he was in your cookie decorating video, right?” And they talk about that until Kent comes back.

His hair is a bird’s nest. Suzanne wants to fuss over him, to fix it. She doesn’t tell him.

Dicky kicks her out of the kitchen later that afternoon, saying he has a new secret pie recipe he wants her to try. She asks, tactfully, if Kent might not get bored, but Dicky assures her he’s a very big help. So she lets them be.

She’s finishing up the last of the chores she meant to do tomorrow when she remembers she’s got some letters that need sending. She can’t find them anywhere they should be, but then thinks she remembers leaving them on the kitchen table when Carol came over to borrow a cup of sugar this morning. Suzanne thinks about how long they’ve been in there, figures the pie should probably be in the oven right now, so it’ll probably be fine if she just sneaks in and grabs them real quick.

The letters are indeed on the kitchen table.

So is Dicky.

And Kent’s tongue is in his mouth.

She freaks.

“Eric Richard Bittle,” she says in the quiet voice that’s worse than shouting, “I did _not_ raise you to behave this way.”

They jump apart, guilty. Dicky looks scared to death. “Mama…” he says, but Suzanne goes on.

“How could you cheat on Jack like that? And you,” she says to Kent, “coming into my home, pretending to be a nice boy-”

The back door opens, letting in heat and humidity and an uncomfortable Jack.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?” he asks, looking like he wants to apologize several more times. “It’s just, Bitty told me to come in through the kitchen…”

“Mama found out.”

“Oh,” says Jack. “Suzanne, I’m surprised at you. Just because Bitty’s gay-”

“Not that,” Bitty interrupts. “I mean, also that, but not that.”

“Oh,” says Jack again, apparently able to interpret that. “How do you want to deal with it, then?”

“Will someone please stop talking in code and explain to me what’s going on here?”

“Mama,” says Dicky, like he thinks he’ll never be able to say it again, “I’m dating them both. And they’re dating each other. We’re all-”

“Oh,” says Suzanne, and sits down. The three of them look miserable, like someone who’s waiting to be told he has just months left to live.

It’s not an expression she wants to see on any of them. 

“Do you make each other happy?” They all nod, Dicky looking like he can’t dare to hope but can’t dare not to either.

“Then it’s fine,” she says, and Dicky starts to cry. Jack and Kent start towards him, but she’s there first, hugging him as tightly as she can. It reminds her of all the other times she’s had to change a shirt for tears, but this time they’re happy, at last, and that thought makes her start crying too.

When they stop sniffling, she says, “Oh, dear.”

“What, mama?”

“This’ll be a little bit more difficult to explain to your father.”

She can feel his breath hitch and his heart beat faster, and he says, “Mama, you can’t tell him any of this. Not about both of them or either of them or even that I’m- that I like boys.”

“Dicky, honey,” she says, considering how best to go on, “you know he likes to watch SportsCenter…”

“He saw that?” Dicky’s voice cracks, and she’s only noticed Jack and Kent were having a whispering conversation by the fridge now that they’ve stopped.

“He’s fine with it, Dicky. And I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to hide things from us again. Now come here,” she says to Kent and Jack, and the four of them are still hugging when Coach comes in, smelling like a man who’s just cleaned the grill, asking after pie. Then he sees them.

“What’s the occasion?”

And her son disentangles himself from their arms, stands up straight as he can, looks his father in the eyes, and says, “Mama was congratulating us, Coach.”

“On?” Richard asks, and she can see Dicky waver, see when he lifts his chin and squares his shoulders to stay the course.

“On our relationship,” he says, and clarifies before Richard can ask, “me and Jack and Kent.”

“I see,” says Coach, and he does. He doesn’t really like the idea, three people in one relationship, but Dicky looks happy, and nothing Coach has done for a long time has made Dicky anything but sad, so he’ll do the hard thing, the right thing, for once and deal with it.

“Y’all two ain’t about to break my boy’s heart now, right?” he asks, advancing on Jack and the blond boy whose name must, apparently, be Kent(?). And _Lord_ , he thinks, _Yankees give their kids some weird names_.

“No, sir,” they say in unison.

“Alright then,” he says, and pretends not to notice how Dicky’s face is lighting up. “Now where’s that pie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -So it wasn't baseball or basketball after all.  
> -I know it may seem outlandish that they'd be playing football coverage in June, but they're genuinely covering it already and it's only April.  
> -It's really going to hurt if canon Coach turns out to be a massive angry bigot.  
> -Bitty did tell Parse the hat thing.  
> -Parse and Jack were creating an escape plan.


	3. The Zimmermanns

Bob Zimmermann remembers Cup Days.

He remembers the first one, taking the Cup out to bars and using it to pick up. He remembers the last one, snuggled up on the couch with his wife and his son, half-watching the Cup and half-watching some kids’ movie, wondering if he’ll ever have it again.

The bands with his name on them have long since been pushed up by newer bands and younger names when the Cup finally returns to his home.

When Alicia opens the door, she’s not surprised to see Jack smiling, even though he didn’t for a long while and even though it makes her heart crack a little for what her little boy has been through, and she’s not surprised to see Eric, not only because of the Cup kiss but also because Jack’s never stopped talking about him, and she’s really not surprised to see the Stanley Cup, because it is Jack’s Cup Day after all, but she’s very surprised indeed to see Kenny.

Thing is, she’s still kind of furious with that boy.

She’s about to pull Jack aside and demand some kind of explanation when Bob comes in, talking a mile a minute about how excited he is, and how proud, and how this is the first of many, occasionally lapsing into Quebecois and dragging the boys and the Cup all over the house.

Eventually, she gets Eric, who looks exhausted and mumbles something about too much too much French, so she takes pity on him and shows him the kitchen.

“Oh my goodness. Would you mind if I baked something?”

“If it’s that pie Jack likes and you share your recipe,” says Alicia, and of course he agrees.

When they’ve put the pie in to bake, she starts to wipe down the counters, casually asking about Kenny.

“I think Jack wants to be the one to tell you about that,” says Eric, and he won’t let anything else slip no matter how sneakily she asks.

Much later, after they’ve had dinner, after the best pie she’s ever had is served from the Stanley Cup, after the table is cleared and the dishes left to soak, they all head to the family room. Alicia stops in the bathroom on the way, and she’s there for a while, trying to compose herself and failing, imagining worse and worse reasons Kenny might be there, smiling his angelic smile and pretending the last ten years never happened. So when she finally makes it there, it’s about 25 minutes into _Moulin Rouge_ , Bob is ‘resting his eyes’ in his ‘I’m not old’ armchair, and the boys are snuggling on the couch. She’s just about to give up and go to bed when Jack notices her and slowly gets up, pulling arms out from under a sleeping Eric and moving his legs past Kenny, who’s not asleep but looks at her with an expression she’s only seen once before, the day Jack overdosed and Kenny found him.

They were in the hospital, the first and only time Kenny visited Jack, and his face was sad and frightened and broken when he told her he’d known. 

That she’s seeing that face now alarms her more than anything else could. She hasn’t seen any of the warning signs, but she hasn’t seen Jack much either. When would Kenny have seen him though? Did Eric find out and call him for advice? But he’d have called us first, wouldn’t he? And then Jack’s by her side, breaking her train of thought.

They’re barely in the hallway before he tells her why Kenny’s here.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asks, and she hates that she has to ask it, hates the way it makes Jack withdraw, hates that she can’t be completely supportive right now.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s just- you remember what happened last time, sweetheart. He left you, for a long time. He hurt you when he came back. I remember how you looked.”

“It’s not the same, maman. We’re older now, I’ve won the Cup, and we’ve got Bitty.”

“You’re not that much older, Jack,” she says, and he just looks at her, and maybe he _is_ that much older; he certainly looks it. “It may take me a while to forgive him for the way he treated you, even if you already have,” she says, and he looks angry, like he’s working up to a lecture, “but I’ll try, because you’ve been happy today and I know he’s part of it. Now go tell your father,” she says with a hug and a smile. “He’ll be thrilled.”

If, later, when Kenny washes dishes next to her while Jack and Eric dry, when the three of them tell her embarrassing stories about each other and she contributes a few of her own, when they chirp him mercilessly about his unwillingness to dry, it feels like a better version of what they used to have, she doesn’t say so. Forgiveness is a long road.

Besides, his head’s big enough already.

Bob wakes when the end credits come on, blaring music. He sees the Cup in his wife’s chair, Jack and his boyfriends wound together on the couch, feels Alicia leaning on his shoulder.

It’s better than all his Cup Days put together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The Stanley Cup has 5 bands on it at once, with the winning team's roster engraved on it. When a new one is added, the old one it replaces goes to the Hockey Hall of Fame.  
> -Sometimes it's hard not to blame people.  
> - _Moulin Rouge_ was Parse's idea.  
>  -Bob is 100% a chill dude. Probably his first couple Cup Days were extremely inadvisable.  
> -These are in chronological order.


	4. Ransom and Holster

Ransom has two weeks off at the end of July, and Holster doesn’t really give a shit about “Implications of International something Finance something,” so they take a vacation.

Of course they choose Vegas.

Everything’s going to plan - they’re eating stupid amounts of food, wasting stupid amounts of money on blackjack (though admittedly it’s mostly the $10k Holster made from one turn at the nickel slots and one bet on roulette), and getting completely and stupidly schwasted - until it isn’t.

The reason it isn’t going to plan is the two dudes sitting together, like, intimately together, in a dimly lit corner booth. The dark-haired dude is definitely Jack, but when they get closer (to say hello, ask how he is, ask him what the fuck he’s doing in Vegas?) they can see that the blond bro is 100% _not Bitty_.

They have to tell him.

“Shit, we have to tell him,” says Ransom.

“Bro,” says Holster, “way ahead of you,” and starts a group text, just the three of them.

Bitty is waiting on drinks at the bar when his phone buzzes. Expecting it to be Kent amending his ridiculously complicated drink order for about the ninetieth time, he stops trying to get the bartender’s attention and checks it.

Holster: Hey Bits!  
Ransom: Sup Bits?  
Bitty: Hi guys, did y’all need something?  
Ransom: Do you know where your boyfriend is?  
Bitty: ...yes, why?  
Holster: Is he, like, right next to you?  
Bitty: What?  
Ransom: Bro, Jack is totally cheating on you!!  
Holster: RANS!!!

Bitty sighs, texts Jack.

Bitty: Holster and Ransom are here, apparently.  
Jack: What?  
Bitty: They can see you and Kent.  
Jack: Oh.  
Bitty: Invite them to sit down, I’ll bring extra drinks.  
Jack: Can do.

“Ready to get the cheating speech again, Kenny?”

“What?”

“Some old teammates are here,” says Jack, craining his neck to look for them. They aren’t hard to find - not because of their height, but because they’re having a fight in very loud whispers in the middle of the walkway.

“Ransom, what the fuck? Bitty is probably going to be traumatized for months now!”

“Holtzy, that’s in the past. Right now, we should be confronting Jack!”

“Confronting - Rans. Ransom. Are you serious?”

“Wait, where _is_ Jack?”

Someone grabs a shoulder each.

“Oh,” whispers Ransom.

“Why don’t you boys come have a seat?” Jack asks in a normal inside voice, only it’s clear he’s not really asking even if it did sound like a question. So they go with him, because they have to, and then they’re sitting across from Jack, who doesn’t look sufficiently guilty but does look like a cat about to play with his food, and blond bro, who is definitely _Kent motherfucking Parson_ (which, really, they should probably have known) looking like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

They’re still frozen by Jack’s expression several minutes later, nobody having moved or said a word except Parse, who keeps snickering, elbowing Jack every so often with an “oh my God, Zimms” and devolving back into laughter. Holster thinks he should probably say something soon, before Ransom - fidgeting slightly like he’s not going to be able to keep words in - can be tactless again.

“Their fucking faces, Zimms, _your fucking face_ ,” says Parse, now full-on giggling, and Ransom opens his mouth to say something, and this is already probably the weirdest night of Holster’s life.

Which is when Bitty shows up with a massive tray of shots, setting one out in front of each of them and taking one for himself. “Drink up!” he says, and this is getting _even fucking weirder somehow_ , but they do.

“You want middle?” Parse asks Bitty, and Holster’s pretty sure Jack’s smiling with more teeth after Bitty slides across his lap.

It’s fucking terrifying.

“One more, I think,” says Jack, and they almost run when he breaks his stare to toast with Parse and Bitty, but then it’s back and they can’t so they take two shots each and hope he gets bored soon and lets them go.

“So,” starts Jack (and are they imagining it or are Parse and Bitty getting closer to him?), “was there something the two of you wanted to say?”

And Holster’s about to 1. cover Ransom’s mouth so he can’t say anything and 2. try to say something himself, though he still doesn’t know _what_ , when there’s a sudden movement across the table and-

“ _Holy fucking shit_ -” says Ransom, and covers his own mouth for once, and that’s good, because Holster doesn’t really have the brainpower to do it.

Bitty is sucking a massive hickey into Parse’s neck.

Now, it’s not like they’ve never seen a drunk Bitty before, and it’s not like they don’t know he gets touchy-feely; once he clung to Holster’s back all night, and a couple times convinced Ransom to grind up on the table every time a Beyonce song played. But they’ve definitely never seen him go for the throat like a motherfucking vampire.

Also, _Parse fucking likes it_.

He’s got his head tipped back, and Holster can’t see under the table but it looks like he’s stroking Bitty’s thigh, and then Jack snakes his arm around Bitty’s waist and leans into them, and this sort of feels like a really private moment, maybe he should grab Ransom and get out of there, but Jack seems to remember their existence again and they freeze.

“Take the shots with you,” he says. “Oh, and don’t tell anyone you saw us.”

And then the three of them are gone.

They take the shots up to their room.

They drink most of them the next morning.

They don’t tell anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Of course they would go to Vegas. Holster has actually been banned from gambling establishments for being too lucky.  
> -I legitimately don't even care whether they're dating because they're 100% life partners forever. Ransom will become an in-demand sports surgeon and Holster will be his glorified secretary and it will be beautiful.  
> -Parse is giggly when tipsy and handsy when drunk; Bitty just wants to touch people.  
> -Jack has a terrifying stare.


	5. Shitty and Lardo

It’s been an unseasonably warm November, and the sudden drop in temperature hits Lardo with all kinds of inspiration.

“Shits,” she says, when he gets home from Torts, “I need to art hard. You in?”

“I’ll grab my keys, bro.”

Thing is, Lardo’s studio isn’t in Boston. After graduation, she’d mentioned offhand to Shitty how much it sucked that space in the city was so expensive, and suddenly Jack was hooking her up with half his house? She kinda wants to know how that conversation went.

Gift horse and all that, though.

There’s no answer when they knock, but that’s pretty normal since Jack and Bitty are always traveling. They know where Bitty hides the spare, so Lardo gets it out of the door knocker while Shitty pulls up his Zimbits calendar.

“Calgary, brah. Both of them.”

“Wonder if it’s cold there?”

And then she sets out to create.

Sometimes she has Shitty model for a pose that’s difficult to visualize, crooked hands or a twisted body, the shifting of muscles during a turn, the pattern of veins under the pale skin of his inner arms, or, when he’s sweating from the effort of holding still, the gleam of afternoon sunlight on his shoulders. She doesn’t often paint to life, but bits and pieces of him are the focus of almost all her work, no matter how abstract.

“Let me give you a trim,” she says. “I need some hair for this.”

“Bro, no problem,” he says. His flow’s been getting a little too long, waiting for her to ask.

Later they sit quietly curled up on the daybed while Lardo sketches out some ideas she’ll need more materials for. When it gets dark, neither of them turns on the lights; they’re already asleep.

They’re awoken some undetermined time after dark by the noise of someone coming home, and they’d definitely get up and say hello only they hear a voice and they don’t really recognize it and shit, what if it’s reporters or burglars or something? (It’s probably not burglars, according to Shitty, who says most home burglaries happen during the day. Lardo’s not sure she agrees with that because it definitely offends her artistic sensibilities and also doesn’t really make sense but figures reporters are probably worse anyway unless the burglars are really into baking.)

“Thank fuck for freak snowstorms,” the guy says, and maybe he really is a reporter because he sounds a little familiar. They’re about to confront him, even though it’s not their house and Shitty’s naked as usual, but then they hear a voice they do recognize.

“You did so well tonight, I think you deserve a pie,” says Bitty, and if Bitty’s offering this guy a pie then he’s probably fine. They’re going to get up and say hi, because Bitty can deal with a naked Shitty and it’ll be hilarious to see the other guy’s reaction, but then they hear what Jack has to say and nope.

“Bet I can think of a reward he wants more than pie right now,” is what Jack says, and then there’s a thud and a moan - and it’s definitely a sex moan, oh shit - and they’ve missed their opportunity to do anything at all but sit here quietly and hope Jack and Bitty and this other guy, in whatever combination, go bang somewhere else.

They should be so lucky.

The guy starts to babble - they can pick out “Zimms” and “more” and “fuck,” really a lot of “fuck,” and once they get the phrase “fuck now, pie later.” They try to distract themselves by figuring out what time it is, because Shitty’s phone is dead and Lardo’s is nowhere to be found, but they don’t know the constellations and anyway the guy is being too loud so it doesn’t work.

And then whoever-he-is stops babbling for a minute, and Jack’s voice is rough when he says, “I saw that assist,” and OK, this guy’s a hockey player, no surprise, “the third one,” so he’s a good hockey player, still not really surprising, “and I wished it was to me,” so not a Falc, then. “Fuck, it was so good, Kenny,” and oh, shit, it’s Kent Parson? 

“Fuck, me too, Zimms,” says _Kent Parson, apparently_ , and then, “oh, fuck, _Bitty_ ,” and, seriously, could they please go fuck somewhere else?

They _do_ go fuck somewhere else, thank whatever deity isn’t a huge fucking misogynist, and Shitty would like very much to go back to sleep now, but Lardo has an idea and he’s got to admit it’s a good one.

Jack and Parse and Bitty wake up to the smell of bacon. It doesn’t really register that none of them is cooking it until they reach the kitchen.

There, stretched from corner to corner, above the heads of a snickering Shitty and Lardo, is a massive banner with 17 massive sparkling letters on it.

CONGRATS ON THE FUCK, it reads.

Bitty blushes. Jack blushes.

“Thanks,” says Parse, burning his fingers on a piece of bacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Possibly this is too much like the last chapter. I think it's a bit better written though.  
> -To clarify the "freak snowstorms" comment: Calgary, in this fic, underwent the same kind of freak snowstorm that caused the Caps to reschedule their games with the Ducks and the Pens this past season. Jack and Bitty watched Parse play in Boston instead. Parse had a 5-point game, 2G, 3A.  
> 


	6. Johnson the Metaphysical Goalie

John Johnson is at the grocery store.

_Even minor fictional characters have to eat_ , he thinks, _but the fact that I’m thinking this on page means a major character’s about to pop up, probably with slapstick, to check me off the author’s list of ensemble characters who need, for whatever reason, to appear in this story. Probably to discover a secret, probably accidentally. I really don’t have time for this_.

His train of thought is derailed - _and what a tired bit of wordplay that is, really_ \- when someone runs into him.

Literally.

“Sorry, let me - Johnson? I didn’t know you lived in Providence. Why have I never seen you here before?”

“I mean, where do any of us go when we’re off page, right, Jack? But my being here was necessary for the structure of this piece, so here I am - insofar as any of us are really here at all, of course.”

“I see,” says Jack, who doesn’t.

“You don’t,” says Johnson, “but that’s normal; awareness of the fourth wall isn’t one of your established character traits. Anyway, it’s been real, if you can call a fictional representation of something that didn’t happen in the context of a fictional story real. Good to see your new secret poly relationship is working out for you.”

“My… How did you know about that?”

“Well, besides you confirming it just now, Jack, it was obvious that was where the plot was going. I mean, it was a tagged relationship and everything.”

“A what?”

“I have to go now, Jack. Lots of minor character tasks to attend to, not that the audience will ever find out what they are. Bye.”

“Bye?” says Jack, and wonders for about the thousandth time why conversations with Johnson are always so weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Johnson is the best. He doesn't say bro enough in this but maybe he's on his best behavior?  
> -He's buying whatever things minor characters buy. Two-dimensional lettuce? That can of green beans that's been in the back of your cabinet for a year and a half? Some of those bakery cupcakes that you always wonder who the fuck buys them? Salsa but no chips? Publix subs?  
> -The only character whose voice is harder for me to (attempt to) write than this is Chowder. But GOALIES.


	7. Dex and Nursey

Dex and Nursey aren’t Ransom and Holster - they fight, constantly and loudly, don’t have pair nicknames, and have never once shared a best friend sundae - which is why they’re surprised to be named co-captains of the Samwell men’s hockey team.

They’re not stupid, OK? They know just sharing the title isn’t going to magically solve all their problems. It won’t make them best bros forever, it won’t stop them from fighting all the time, and it won’t keep Dex from almost killing Nursey for being a bad attic-mate.

(“Chill, Dex, why are you so uncomfortable with my bisexuality?”  
“I’m _uncomfortable_ because _there’s a massive wet spot on my bed!_ ”  
“What? Evan wanted to know what it was like to fuck in the top bunk. Cassie thought it was hot, so…”  
“ _Fucking change my sheets, Nurse!_ ”)

They’re determined to try, though. They want to do this captain thing right.

They make it to December before it falls apart completely and they have to beg every former captain they know for help.

Jack agrees, says he and Bitty can book a hotel room for the weekend. Ransom and Holster are incredibly excited about the whole thing, which is in itself enough to make Dex start grinding his teeth and wish Nursey hadn’t asked, until they hear that Jack will be there and suddenly remember a whole host of Very Important Things they both have to do that weekend.

The Falconers lose to the Aces in OT Friday night, and on Saturday morning Jack and Bitty are at Faber, Jack lecturing them on focus and dedication, Bitty on team inspiration and getting along, for goodness’ sake.

At lunchtime Kent Parson comes to pick them up from the rink, which, what? The press is always going on about how they’re, like, mortal enemies or some shit ever since the Cup Finals last season. Crosby and Giroux have nothing on Zimmermann and Parson. The way they’re written about, the league will be lucky if fractured wrists are the worst thing that comes out of them.

Nursey and Dex definitely don’t follow them.

“Ten bucks says they’re gonna bang,” says Nursey, watching the three of them head into the hotel, not holding hands but walking so close together they might as well be.

“Why is everything always about sex with you?”

“You taking the bet then?”

“Not a fucking chance. Look at them, they’re definitely gonna bang.”

“Dex, you little shit,” Nursey says, without heat.

“Chill, Nurse,” says Dex, smirking.

And when Dex’s bed ends up hosting another wet spot, at least it’s one he's involved in making.

If Dex is already blushing when Jack and Bitty say their goodbyes and he and Nurse give their thanks, it’s only because he’s pretty sure he knows what Nursey’s going to say and not because he’s pretty sure Bitty can see the edge of a hickey peeking over his collar, which no, he's not going to pop, Nurse, because he's not some preppy douchebag, just aim a little lower next time, seriously.

“Oh, and tell Parse thanks for the lesson in enmity,” Nurse finishes, and they watch the current Art Ross frontrunner blush to the tips of his ears while the most popular baking blogger in the world hides his face. So at least Dex is in good company.

They don’t have a single problem the rest of the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I don't know why I thought "Derek Nurse would definitely hit on William Poindexter by fucking someone else in his bed," but I really really do. He probably tried poetry first but let's be real, that would just end in "stop reading your homework out loud, you asshole, I'm trying to study."  
> -I assume the captain thing fell apart when they literally stopped talking to each other and Chowder tried to hold it down but he nearly killed the entire team with extra practices.  
> -Not much is made of the Sidney Crosby-Claude Giroux enmity these days, but back in 2012 or so, Giroux had to get offseason wrist surgery for fractured wrists, accused Crosby of slashing them deliberately, Crosby responded that it wasn't deliberate but he wasn't particularly fussed if it had happened. I can't really think of any intense rivalry that's more current and Google couldn't either.  
> -Don't believe everything you read in the papers.


	8. Chowder

It’s pretty early on Sunday morning - well, it’s like 8, but it is Sunday, so that probably counts as pretty early, right? - when Chowder gets woken up by a text message. It might be important, if he’s getting it during the actual morning on an actual weekend when mostly everyone is sleeping in or really really hungover or in an earlier time zone than him, so he grabs his phone without waking Farmer and waits for his sleepy brain to process what he’s seeing.

First off, it’s a group message, so it’s probably not as important as he thought, but he’s awake, so he might as well look at it, and it could still be important, like if someone’s getting married or his cousin’s had her baby or his grandma’s hip replacement is fully rehabbed, so he should probably check it just to be sure.

It takes him a minute to recognize the name, because it’s the old group, the one from his frog year, with Shitty and Ransom and Bitty and Lardo and Holster and NHL captain Jack Zimmermann (!) whose old room he still can’t believe he sleeps in now even though it’s been a few years. It wouldn’t have taken him this long to figure out except he’s pretty sure it was called something else yesterday. Because it’s really not that uncommon to get messages from the old group. Holster sends what he calls “zombie Ransom selfies” at least twice a week (which Chowder doesn’t often understand but always laughs at), Lardo keeps them up to date with her art (which Chowder never understands but always compliments), and Bitty asks what hockey players he should bake with (which Chowder always answers: Martin Jones and James Reimer).

But this message is from Jack Zimmermann (!). And that’s a little unusual.

Also, it’s a picture, which is even more unusual.

A selfie, which is downright strange.

Oh, and Jack Zimmermann (!) isn’t wearing a shirt, and this is getting really weird, and neither is the guy he’s making out with.

Who isn’t Bitty.

Chowder: Did you mean to send that to the group text, Jack?  
Jack: No, Chowder.  
Chowder: And that’s not Bitty, is it?  
Jack: No, Chowder.  
Chowder: Oh.

Bitty’s just decided what he wants to have Crosby and Malkin make, even if it is really really obvious to have a Russian make blini and a Canadian use maple syrup (and hey, the fans seem to like obvious, and if this new maple-apple filling he’ll be trying out works out in the blini then he’ll have a new pie for Jack), and is trying to decide who he should pair with Karlsson two weeks from now in Ottawa when his phone starts blowing up.

There’s one from Jack; he checks it first. It says, simply, “Sorry.”

He gets one from Kent then, all in emoji: about ten laughing faces, that weird moon face one that still kind of makes Bitty uncomfortable, the screaming face, the peach, the cat, a heart, and Bitty’s as good as anyone at interpreting emoji messages but Kent’s got him pretty stumped here. All he can get out of it is that whatever Jack is apologizing for is probably not a big deal, and that this isn’t some stupid text message breakup or something like that.

When he checks the group text he finds out exactly what they meant, and pauses to send Kent an old man face before moving on to the massive and growing number of texts from Chowder.

Chowder: Omg bitty  
Chowder: I’m so sorry  
Chowder: Are you ok????  
Chowder: I can come see you if you need??  
Chowder: Oh but you’re out of town  
Chowder: But i can totally fly there!!!  
Chowder: Wait, what city are you in again?  
Chowder: Are you in canada??  
Chowder: Because i’m not sure where my passport is  
Chowder: But i can try to sneak across the border!  
Chowder: I’m sure i can get my professor to let me take the quiz some other time!!  
Chowder: How much are plane tickets again??  
Chowder: Oh, they’re kind of expensive  
Chowder: That’s ok though!!  
Chowder: I’ll still buy one!  
Chowder: I can always skip lunch for a few weeks!!  
Bitty: Calm down, Chowder, everything’s fine.

Chowder is about to launch another thousand texts to ask how it can be fine and why Bitty’s taking it so well or is he taking it so well and is he in Canada really because Chowder can look for his passport, really, he’s kind of afraid of horses so he doesn’t want to be caught illegally crossing the border by a Mountie, but a text comes in on the group message so he checks that first just in case it can answer any or all of those questions.

It can’t really, because it’s from Shitty, and texts from Shitty mostly leave him with more questions except the ones about gender and sexuality which are mostly pretty informative.

This one is not at all informative and definitely leaves him with more questions because all it says is, “GET IT, BITS!”

He’s pretty sure he probably makes a noise at that because Farmer wakes up then and asks him what’s wrong. He shows her the messages.

She ends up needing Nursey and Dex (well, not needing Dex, really, but Dex comes along too) and about half an hour to explain it to him.

Chowder: Congrats, guys :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I don't think I'll do the tadpoles or the Falcs. There is still one chapter after this though.  
> -Some of Holster's "zombie Ransom selfies" are done by stacking things on Ransom. Sometimes he does it by Jack's game schedule: an octopus when the Falcs play the Red Wings, catfish when they play Nashville, rats when they play the Panthers, a Falcs hat every time Jack gets a hat trick.  
> -Martin Jones and James Reimer are the current goalies for the San Jose Sharks.  
> -Nursey is much better at discussing sexuality than Dex is.


	9. The Press

The only thing Kent Parson ever learned from media training was how to keep his mouth shut.

So it’s pretty ironic that its being open is what starts the whole stupid scandal.

The thing is, Zimms and Bitty have been openly dating for more than a year, and they’re sickeningly happy and always chaste and sweet and utterly fucking adorable in whatever candid pictures people take of them, which is a lot, because they’re famous and cute and basically icons for, like, the non-straight community, and literally everybody loves them.

Parse, on the other hand, is hot as fuck, sometimes trashy as fuck, and is pretty sure he couldn’t look chaste if he were a nun.

It’s not particularly surprising that the press want to catch Zimms and Bitty in relationship troubles, because the one thing the public loves more than a sweet and fluffy romance is the schadenfreude they feel when it comes crashing down, and, despite the irony, it’s even less surprising that it’s Parse’s fault they think they do.

Bitty is back in Georgia, doing all the baking for his cousin’s wedding. In his spare time he’s probably editing the Benn and Seguin video he’s supposed to post next preseason, even though that’s still a couple months away. Parse suspects that this is more because he doesn’t want to help them move rather than out of any special love towards this particular cousin, but that’s fine, he’s got Zimms, and you’re supposed to lift with your ass, right? So Zimms is probably the best mover there is.

They finish packing his stuff eventually. It doesn’t take as long as he thought it would, really, which is kind of sad but also great because it means he’s got time to relax now. In the morning they’re going to load his shit on the truck and drive it all the way to Providence, which sounds equal parts romantic and horrific to Parse, but whatever, it’s cheaper than trying to fly it there and they can definitely fuck in a million cheap motels on the way if they want. Maybe not a million, they do have a deadline, but still. 

Zimms rolls the last stolen glass in newspaper and tapes the box - the exact contents of which are listed carefully in Zimms’ writing on the side and have “FRAGILE” scribbled over them in extremely large letters by Parse - closed. He knows Zimms is going to want them to go to bed early, so he preempts him.

“I want to go out, give Vegas a good old sendoff the Kent Parson way.”

Zimms laughs, chirping him mercilessly for being utterly fucking ridiculous, but agrees.

Parse isn’t quite sure whether it’s the alley behind the fifth or sixth club where it happens. He’s got Zimms pinned up against the wall, running his hands all over him, and ok, maybe they’re also kissing and maybe there’s a lot of tongue and maybe Parse has just plastered himself to Zimms and started groping his glorious ass when they’re very rudely interrupted by what might possibly be the blinding flash of a camera. Or several cameras.

Shit.

They hire movers to drive Parse’s shit across the country instead and hightail it to the airport to catch the next available flight.

“I fucked up,” says Parse, when they get home and find Bitty waiting, and he’s really glad Zimms is too tired to apologize as much as he usually does because that would be getting really old right about now. Fucking Canada.

“You don’t say,” says Bitty, but he sounds more amused than annoyed or alarmed, so Parse is pretty sure there aren’t going to be any problems with Zimms’ contract or his own. And that’s good, because the NHL is something Parse really doesn’t want to be responsible for taking away from him. Again.

“Sorry,” says Zimms, but it’s only about the seventeenth time so it’s not quite to irritating levels yet.

“Go sleep,” says Bitty, and Parse forgets sometimes that Bitty was the captain of a hockey team too but he definitely remembers it now. “The Falconers’ PR team wants us all there for the press conference, 4 pm.”

They do sleep. Only sleep. _Too little, too late, Parse._

Bitty’s set Kit Purrson up comfortably, unpacked their suitcases, and is already in a suit when he wakes them at 2:30, getting them showered and shaved and dressed with an ease born of practice.

By quarter to four they’re sitting behind a table, reviewing what notes PR has been able to give them and watching the press file in. Bitty is on Jack’s right and Kenny Jack’s left, his wingers where they’ve always belonged only closer. Quite a bit closer - their chairs are already touching. He’s never been this near someone at a press conference before. It’s comforting, really.

George speaks first.

“This press conference was originally scheduled to be held two evenings from now, to announce that the Falconers have acquired unrestricted free agent Kent Parson, an acquisition that was made official as of July 1, 2018. Unfortunately, most of you aren’t interested in the hockey story of the decade, preferring instead to make snap assumptions about our players’ personal lives. We’re here this afternoon to set the record straight. After this, anyone making a big deal of the issue at hand will certainly find themselves making a speedy and irreversible exit from this building. I hope we’ve made this abundantly clear. Jack?”

“Right. So, as you’re all aware, I’ve been in a long-term relationship with Eric Bittle for quite a while. What you don’t know is that we’ve also been in one with Kent Parson.”

He sits back, waiting. It’s silent.

And everyone starts talking at once.

Gradually, George gets them calmed down, taking turns. It really might have been better if she hadn’t, though. Parse can feel Zimms tensing, question by question, as he explains what polyamory is, introduces the concept of polyfidelity to a roomful of people who’ve apparently never heard of it despite being grown-ass adults and nosy fucking journalistic ones to boot, tells them no, no-one’s cheating on anyone and nobody’s broken up, haven’t they been listening? And Parse can see that Bitty feels it too; they’ve been unconsciously mirroring each other’s movements the whole time, soothing Jack with a hand on each thigh and leaning in closer with each question.

“But how does it work?” is the next question, and Parse will have to ask Bitty if they can bake George a mountain of “thanks-for-taking-care-of-Zimms” desserts, because she’s just as quick as they are at seeing the cracks appear in the hockey-robot media mask, and looks like she’s about to start in on this guy, probably with a long lecture, when Parse interrupts.

“If that’s the last question,” he says, and George nods confirmation, “then I’ll take it,” and he reaches across Zimms with his left hand because the right’s still on his thigh, cups Bitty’s face, and kisses him.

By Parse’s standards it’s pretty tame, but they are in public and he is completely sober and he really doesn’t want those shitty “get the gay away from my kids” groups to have any more pictures of him that they can label ‘lascivious’ than they already do, especially since the ones they do have are all with women, at least.

“That’s how it works,” he says, and he can only vaguely hear George winding things down as he and Bitty drag Jack from the room.

The press are offensive for the next two months, to borrow George’s term, speculating on whether Jack having two boyfriends will affect his play, despite the fact that he won his second Cup while he was dating them, how Parse’s relationship with Zimms might damage the Falcs, if Bitty will be considered “too deviant” to do any more NHL cooking blogs.

In September, the Falconers win their first preseason game 7-1 in St. Louis, a hatty apiece for their C and their new A, and the Dallas Stars band together with Bitty’s still-ridiculous number of Twitter followers to send his newest video trending on Twitter for almost a day.

The journalists vanish like they never were.

They’re sitting on the porch, grabbing the last gasps of summer now that they actually can, when Bitty asks, “How do y’all feel about rings?”

“Rings are for winners,” Parse says, pointing to himself and smirking in Zimms' direction.

“Kenny, did you forget I also have two? And mine are more recent. Looks like you’ve lost your touch.”

And they keep chirping like that until the bugs drive them inside.

The rings look great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -This chapter is loosely based on the original idea for the series, until I sat down at 3 a.m. and SOC'd what eventually became chapters 1 and 2 of the first part. It's also only about 5k of sneaking around shorter than the entire series was originally intended to be. And now I'm over 20k into a series that's still not done and what has this precious webcomic done to my life??  
> -Hopefully the last real hockey players I'll mention in this universe but PROBABLY NOT: Jamie Benn is a left winger and C for the Dallas Stars. His brother Jordie plays defense for them. Tyler Seguin is a center for the same.  
> -There are actually more brothers in the NHL than you'd expect but only a few of them are on teams with each other.  
> -You're not supposed to lift with your ass but with your knees.  
> -Bitty did rush home when his millions of Twitter followers broke the news. He'd already made the cake so nobody made too much of a fuss about him leaving.  
> -George would normally be more tactful (and probably would not normally be doing this press conference) but sometimes you just run out of patience.  
> -Are the people who interview pro sports players really this dumb? Maybe. The questions most of them ask in normal interviews don't really give me hope.  
> -This isn't that relevant but wejustscored.com has been pretty handy in writing this fic so far.


End file.
